“Hi Mum, what’s the DOB?” chirps the receptionist at my paediatrician’s office for the thousandth time this year.
I pause, momentarily confused. Did I miss something? Did she mistake me for her own mother? Or, did my name legally change to “Mum” when a human was yanked from my body as I lay splayed open on the operating table?
I glance down at my driver’s license. Nope, still says Alli. I must have missed the memo that giving birth automatically erases the name given to you at birth and replaces it with a sticky name tag that just says “MUM” in all caps.
“June 1st,” I grit my teeth and answer, adding, “and, my name is Alli.”
I’m convinced there’s a secret room at the hospital where they store all the discarded identities of new mothers. Just overflowing bins full of actual names, gathering dust while we parade around with our new government-issued label: MUM. I imagine them there, thousands of names ― Lauren, Jillian, Kim, Alli ― all withering away like forgotten houseplants.
The erosion of your identity begins the moment that pregnancy test shows two lines. Or, in my case, when I peed on way too many sticks and couldn’t tell if there was a line or not.
“Is that a line? Is that a shadow? Is that my last shred of individuality disappearing before my eyes?”
By the time I’d purchased half the pregnancy tests at the pharmacy and lined them up like a bizarre art installation on my bathroom counter, I’d already begun morphing into “Mama”.
The cashier probably thought I was building a pee-stick fortress in my bathroom, but little did she know she was witnessing the first stage of my disappearing act.
“How’s Mama feeling today?” asks the ultrasound tech as she squirts what feels like a gallon of cold jelly onto my belly.
“Mama is wondering when Mama lost her damn name,” I think.
By the time you’re in labour, you’re just “Mama” to an entire floor of strangers. Most of whom have seen you in a state most comparable to that of a farm animal.
“Mama’s doing great!” they announce over your sweating, contorted body while you chomp down on ice chips and make sounds you didn’t know were possible for any human to make.
“Mama, you need to push now!” they cheer, as if you’re a racehorse who understands English but has somehow forgotten its own name.
Never mind that I went to college, built a career, and once knew how to complete sentences without my brain drawing a blank. Now I’m just “Mama,” the anonymous vessel who’s expected to push a human out while everyone watches.
Then comes the paediatrician’s office, where you are eternally “Mum” regardless of how many times you correct them.
Even when your child’s medical chart is open on the desk with a paper that clearly identifies you, one Alli Kushner, as said child’s mother. It’s right there, in black and white, and yet somehow invisible at the same time. Like the state of motherhood in general, everywhere and nowhere.
The final stage of Mum-ification happens at school. You become “Jackson’s mum” or “Lilly’s mummy” ― even to adults who know your actual name, as well as the ones who are too lazy to learn it.
I’ve had FULL conversations with my daughter’s teacher, where she addresses me as “Emily’s mum” while I call her “Ms. Sanders,” because apparently only one of us deserves a name. I once contemplated responding with “Thank you, Human Who Teaches,” but my better judgment prevailed.
There was actually a day I realised no one had said my first name aloud in a week… not even me. And I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or reintroduce myself to myself in the mirror. “Hello, Alli, nice to meet you.”
The identity theft reaches a creepy crescendo when your partner, the one who once whispered your name with desire, starts referring to you as “Mum”. (Even if it’s just in front of your kids.) Because nothing says “I still find you sexually attractive” like being addressed by your parental title.
Fast forward, and you’re at a dinner party, a rare event you’ve attended after securing childcare through a time-consuming and expensive process that required more planning than a military operation, and someone asks your name.
“I’m Aiden’s mum,” you respond automatically, then blink in sheer horror. You’ve forgotten your own damn name.
Game over. The Mum-ification is complete.
You now introduce yourself exclusively through the identity of your offspring, like some kind of human appendage. Your LinkedIn profile now reads: “Professional Child-Rearer, Specialising in Being Someone’s Mother, Previously Known as an Individual with Interests.”
Photo Courtesy Of Alli Kushner
Medical professionals LOVE the generic “Mum” label, but imagine if this practice extended to other service providers.
“Welcome to Starbucks, Mum! What can I get started for you today? A venti sleep with extra patience?” Ah, my barista knows me so well.
“Your haircut looks great, Mum! Same style in six weeks? Or should we just go with something practical that can withstand being puked on and not washed for at least three days?”
“We’ve reviewed your resume, Mum, and we’d like to offer you the VP position. Your experience wiping butts and negotiating with tiny emotional terrorists makes you uniquely qualified for corporate America.”
These scenarios sound absolutely absurd because they are 100% absurd. Yet somehow, when the paediatrician’s receptionist calls me “Mum” instead of my name that is literally right there on the file in front of her, it’s considered normal. It’s almost as if birthing a child suddenly makes my personal identity optional.
Hilariously, all medical bills are properly addressed to “Alli Kushner”.
Perhaps it’s a test of maternal devotion. If I crack and scream, “MY NAME IS ALLI!” they’ll know I’m not mum material after all. And then an alarm will go off, and people in white suits will drop from the ceiling and strip me of my parental rights.
“Sorry, ma’am, you’ve failed the Mum Test. Please return your child and your ‘World’s Best Mum’ mug on your way out. You can keep the piles of laundry that still need to be done as a parting gift.”
After nearly three years of this, I’ve fantasised about multiple strategies for reclaiming my identity.
The Name Tag Approach: I imagine wearing an oversized name tag to a paediatrician appointment that says “MY NAME IS ALLI (NOT ‘MUM’).” The receptionist still calls me “Mum,” but at least looks slightly embarrassed about it.
The Formal Introduction: In my head, I stand up straight and announce, “Hi, I’m Alli Kushner, mother of Lilly, whose medical records you are currently holding, which also have MY name on them.” The entire waiting room applauds. One woman throws her breast pump in the air in celebration.
The Mock Confusion: I picture myself looking around the room, confused. “Mum? I don’t see my mother here. Are you expecting her too?” Maybe I even pretend to call my own mother: “Hey, Mum, the receptionist says you’re here? No? How strange!”
The Reverse Uno: I smile sweetly and say, “Thanks, Receptionist!” (Not their name? Exactly my point.)
The LinkedIn Bio: I fantasise about handing over a business card that reads, “I’m an operations professional and tech founder AND current human with a name who also happens to have reproduced…twice! Oh, and my name is Alli. It’s four letters. You can do this.”
None of these work, of course, because they only happen in the slow-motion movie playing in my head while I nod and answer whatever question “Mum” has been asked. Because at the end of the day, I’m too tired to start a revolution while also remembering whether my kid has had their vaccinations.
I love being a mum. It’s the most challenging, rewarding, maddening, joyful thing I’ve ever done. But, that’s not all I am. I had a name, an identity, and an existence before tiny humans called me “Mummy,” and I still have those things now.
Motherhood is something I do, not everything I am. And, I think every mother ― regardless of her work status outside of the home ― can agree. My little humans may call me Mummy, but you, the wider world, may not. We deserve the dignity of being recognised as both mothers and individuals with actual names.
Until that happens, I’ll be dreaming of the day when I’ll be more than a maternal prefix. Because somewhere beneath the diaper bags and the snack wrappers and the never-ending to-do lists, there’s still a woman named Alli. And she’d really like to be called by her name.
Alli Kushner is a mum of two, postpartum depression survivor, and the founder of BeeKyn, a soon-to-launch playdate matching and scheduling platform designed to make parenting more connected and less isolating. By day, she works at LinkedIn. By night (and naptime), she channels her experience in operations and her own parenting journey into building real-world solutions that help parents feel seen, supported, and a little less alone. Connect with her on LinkedIn for more reflections on parenting.
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